


After the Nightfall

by Joel7th



Series: Eden [10]
Category: The Shrine (2010), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Character Death, Crossover, Horror, M/M, Multiple Crossovers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joel7th/pseuds/Joel7th
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two travelers, lost in a faraway land of central Europe, came across a village. They asked to stay for the night and ended up getting more than they bargained for.</p><p>Related to Fair Trade (Part 1)  and Eden (Part 5)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charles Xavier

**  
**

_\---_

It was a terrible mistake, the cruelest kind fate can have in store for us short-lived humans.

All we intended was celebration – of my successful thesis defense and my little sister’s graduation and engagement to her college boyfriend. Instead of getting a ridiculous amount of booze and partying like there was no tomorrow, we all wanted something different from the ordinary – oh how young and foolish we were! My little sister was always keen on traveling and somehow she had managed to convince us – her big brother she often endearingly nicknamed ‘old fart’, and her fiancé, a full-time computer geek – that a backpacking trip was very appealing an idea: we would venture into the rural lands of central Europe where the primitive landscape is much preserved – don’t you love that? We would stay in the locals’ house, we would learn about their lives, their customs – don’t you love that too? And before our rational minds had the chance to speak of various potential threats, we had booked three tickets to Poland, and readied ourselves for the journey to come.

After a month, we found ourselves at this backwater village, where, just as we liked, the primitive landscape was most untouched and the life of the locals largely remained as it had been in the Middle Ages.

Our nightmare began here, our very last nightmare.

…

The commotion outside caught my attention. New voices distinctively stood out amongst all the familiar ones. Memorization of all the voices in this village isn’t too difficult once you get the hang of it. Well, to be fair, there weren’t awfully many people here and seeing that I had nothing better to do, I might just try to distinguish one from another. It came in handy sometimes, telling newcomers apart from villagers, for instance. So far, I allowed myself a little pride for doing a more-than-average job of it.

That, and teaching myself the language spoken in this foreign land. I was American and it’s quite true when they say American is synonymous with monolingual, so Polish proved quite a challenge for me. But time had made up for the lack of talent and time I had plenty in my hand, if that was all I could have.

“My name is Charles Xavier,” spoke one of the newcomers, voice clear, soft and in perfect Polish.

My heart skipped a beat at the name. A coincidence, I tried to reassure myself.

“This is my companion, Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles continued. “He’s German.”

So, ‘Erik’ with a ‘k’ instead of a ‘c’.

The other one, Erik, greeted the villagers in a low voice while Charles went on: “We came from the States and we lost our way here. Is this forest always so misty?”

My ears stopped hearing the rest of Charles’s words after “the forest”. My temples throbbed. Pain. Pain so acute that it made me forget everything and everyone around. Behind my shriveled eyelids came the sight of the aforementioned forest, its never-ending mist engulfing all the trees and rocks. And the statue! Don’t look at the statue! Don’t look at its outstretched hand, its bleeding heart…

Swallowed up in my sudden vision I had lost the responses from the villagers. I didn’t suspect they were having the same reaction – immensely horrified by Charles’s mention of “the forest” – yet they hid their fear well beyond a calm, serene façade. Practice makes perfect. They wouldn’t let their new ‘guests’ know of their fear. Not before they saw it for themselves.

Confusion was shown in Charles’s brief silence before he asked, politely as he had been since arrival, “Could you please provide us accommodation for the night, please? We’ll pay, of course. It is getting dark and we are unable to continue our journey until the morning.”

I fought back another pain, which was not quite terrible as the first. They would let Charles and his companion stay the night, there was no doubt. In fact, they would absolutely not allow their ‘guests’ to leave. Not before their work was done.

The dreaded sense of déjà vu dawned on me. Once again I felt so helpless, so hopeless.

…

They had all the time they needed for preparation. They would do what they had to do, with eyes of detachment and a terrifying sense of efficiency, like they had done countless times before. I had been there long enough to know.

But that was after the night fell on this accursed land. For now, they would play the hospitable host for their ‘guests’.

Aron was the one who had offered to take the two travelers since his was by far the most affluent household in the village. I had been under his roof once – had felt indescribably grateful when he gave us, lost, clueless American travelers, accommodation for the night, even providing us with hot, delicious Polish dinner and soft beds. The most affable, kindest man on Earth until we learnt that he would be the one to swing the sledgehammer.

Always the monstrous-looking sledgehammer.

The unwarned resurrection of my sister’s last scream coursed through my nerves like thousands tiny flames imbued in my flesh. I sank down on the stair, my arms embracing my trembling frame. It was so real, the pain, that I entirely forgot I shouldn’t be feeling it, couldn’t be feeling it. Leaning my head against the railing, I listened to the bustling conversation down the dining table.

Aron was playing the charming, amiable host tonight; I knew he was actually charming and amiable – when his guests weren’t travelers who got lost wandering in the misty forest by the rear of the village. He had invited Charles and Erik to dinner, scrupulously prepared by his docile wife Irena, who had never set foot outside their village. She was a textbook housewife and a great cook, and her cooking had only improved since last time. The alluring aroma pervading the air nauseated me soon as I caught it.

I wasn’t surprised to find out Charles was the more loquacious of the two. He carried on the conversation easily with his flawless Polish, now and then throwing in some collocations and slangs that dumbfounded my flimsy grasp of the language but sent Aron to a fit of boisterous  laughter and even the shy, reserved Irena to giggle. There was a melody icing his tone and the manner with which he articulated each syllable; just listening to him eased the pain in me. Erik, on the other hand, remained mostly silent throughout the meal save a few scarce words when Aron steered the attention to him. Perhaps his Polish wasn’t so good as Charles or he was naturally the silent type.

I heaved a sigh. Erik seemed the type that I would find intriguing and probably seek to pursue for companionship, provided that I wasn’t in this state and he was going to…

I tried not to imagine his scream when Aron swung the sledgehammer.

…

Driven by the curiosity of my subconsciousness, I followed the pair. Aron had arranged the upstairs guestrooms for them, opposite from each other’s. “Should you need anything in the night, just use the phone,” he said, ever the thoughtful and considerate host.

My footsteps halted in the corridor as a question sprang to my mind: What am I doing, following them to their rooms? It was a violation of privacy that my conscience was trying to raise a voice against. I had never been an eavesdropper and the very thought of being one appalled me. But then, another voice cut in, sharply, to remind me that in the state I was, my presence never went noticed and I was as good as any other furniture in their rooms. Moreover, it was unlikely that I could _see_ any of their secrets, let alone divulge them.

In the end it was my curiosity getting the better of me, really. Even just for a few hours, I yearned desperately to know a little more about them, about the world outside this damnable village from which they came, the world I longed to return with every of my conscious minute and never could.

And Erik… If only I could at least see how he looked like, how they looked like.

My feet were already moving on their own before I decided which room to enter. My body slipped effortlessly past the thick oaken door and I half expected the silence or light snoring as Erik might have gone to bed early. Instead I heard Charles’s voice, clear, soft and undoubtedly British as he were chatting with Erik.

Erik’s replies were scarce as before, which left their conversation more of a monologue. Charles didn’t appear to be bothered as he went on talking. Perhaps Charles knew Erik always paid attention to what he said. Perhaps that was the way they were – the enthusiastic conversationalist and the faithful listener.

I listened only to the timbre of his voice, never mind the meaning. The sweet, soothing melody crafted into words. It revived the memory of the orchestral concerts where I had managed, on occasions, to drag my little sister to and though she either grumpily complained or yawned throughout the length of the show, I knew deep down she enjoyed it as much as I did. To recall it now was like recalling a faraway dream, fading with the passage of time.

“Erik,” Charles broke my reverie, the name rolling on his tongue as though he had spent copious hours practicing its pronunciation. Now that I noticed, every speech Charles made was seemingly without flaw, no stuttering, no mispronunciation, no filler or such, and melodious in a way that appeared mystical, hypnotic. Be it Polish or English, he commanded the language with perfection, and in his perfection there was little humanity. Of course I didn’t know Charles enough to reach such a conclusion, but there was something abnormal about this man that I perceived – call it sixth sense if you want – and I was mesmerized as I was unnerved by it. Irrational, but true.

“A foot rub, maybe?”

Erik made a derisive sound. “Not your pet,” he replied in faint German accent.

Charles was not put back by Erik’s curt refusal as he said in cheerful tone, “So cold!” The rustle of fabric was caught in my ears. “But some comfort for my sore feet is not asking too much, no? You know I’m not accustomed to this hardship of traveling.”

Footsteps thumped lightly on the hardwood floor, moving closer to the bed. “Serve you right for accepting this stupid bet.”

“I know, you’ve said that a hundred times already! But Erik, you can’t chide me for a little fun!” Charles rebuked and possibly _pouted_ … Why would I associate Charles with the childish act of pouting? I didn’t even know what sort of expression he was wearing, or how he looked like.

Erik snorted in reply.

“Anyway, it’s been forever since we got to be alone, just the two of us. It’s very much our…” He paused. A chuckle filled in. “…honeymoon.”

My face heated up at his lexical choice. Such intimacy. They must be…

“And what now?” Erik asked sarcastically. “Honeymoon sex?”

“Exactly my thought after the foot rub.” There was a triumphant note in Charles’s tone.

The rustle of fabric got louder, mingled with Charles’s giggles. He seemed to like smiling and laughing a lot, the sort of youthful cheekiness my little sister used to have. He was probably her age too, judging by his voice, with Erik only a few years older – his voice deep yet untouched by the weight of years.

So young, so full of life, and still…

It was time I got to leave, slipping incorporeally through the door the same way I had entered, forced by the need to respect their privacy, my rising pity for them, or my disgust at myself for being so helplessness. Perhaps the combination of all three…

I lost track of time – did I ever really pay attention to time – when I drifted along the empty corridor. Whenever I started this self-induced trance, I was under an illusion of being held at the bottom of the ocean, my limbs heavy and bound by seaweeds to rocks. I lay on a platform of pearly sand, seeing light yet unable to feel its warmth, hearing sounds yet unable to reach their source. Every time I felt detached, isolated, the fact of being truly alone in this vast world full of people starkly highlighted, and I felt safe, utterly safe at the same time. When I was here, under this thick, dense blanket of water, I was protected from them, from their manacles and cold knives, and most of all, from the final scream of my little sister, from the savage memory of her being mutilated and slaughtered in front of my eyes.

A curse to bear for eternity, if eternity was all that was left for me. But for now, I was allowed a short break from it.

A short break indeed it was. I barely touched the surface of temporary serenity when hurried footsteps on the wooden floor shattered my trance. They were coming for the pair; the time had come at last.

Despite my utter inability to alter their inevitable fate, I stepped in and barred the door as though my incorporeal body could somehow produce a force to stop them, a futile act I kept nonsensically repeating every time footsteps came stomping the corridor. How many times I had witnessed they force the door open, passing through me without the slightest notice, once more reminding me of my non-existent existence, and how I had become what I was:

A ghost!

… It was my sister’s scream that roused me from my light sleep. Throwing back the covers, I rushed to the door and was only an inch away from the brass knob when the door was swung open, the violent force of which caused me to tumble and fell on the floor. I had only a brief glimpse of my sister and Henry, her boyfriend – both struggling against the vice-like grip of two towering hooded men whom I recognized as the twin brothers glaring at us with unconcealed menace upon our arrival. They looked down on me with their icy pale eyes, sending a chill down my spine. Then I saw Aron, ever-friendly Aron, stepped in and knocked them both unconscious with a club in his hand. He needed not do me since my resistance was far feebler. I was never a man of physical strength and subduing me was an effortless task. My demands for an explanation in both lame Polish and English went completely ignored as the men dragged us to the church, down the damp, stony stairs to a dimly-lit basement. At a corner unadorned wooden coffins from which the unmistakable stench of putrefaction reeked. I shuddered at the morbid atmosphere and the grim prospect of what they might want with us – abduction, slavery and murder, those stories were common in these remote corners of the world. The priests in old-fashioned, ornate robes stood waiting like icons in temples and in front of their cold, emotionless eyes the men stripped us bare, paying as little attention to my sister’s modesty as possible, and dressed us in stark-white gowns while I yelled and cursed them. Like my previous demands, they went deaf on them as well.

It was Henry’s screams that pulled my sister back to consciousness. They had placed us in a makeshift cell and taken Henry to a large, cross-shaped stone surface, securing his head, limbs and wrists. Upon witnessing what they were doing to him, and would likely do the same to us – lacerating his wrists and Achilles’ tendons with the accuracy of surgeons – she howled a bloodcurdling cry. “Don’t look!” I whispered into her ears, holding her head away from the gruesome sight with trembling hands, and she obeyed, muffling her cries into my chest and covering her ears. Horrified was not enough a word to describe us at that moment; I clung to her as much as she clung to me for support. However, I forced my eyes to stare at the scene; I had to know what would become of our dear Henry and bear the agony of it in place of my little sister. Henry’s pleading gaze at us gave me some assurance that I was doing the right thing.

The head priest – I assumed from his lavish robe and aura of authority – was reading from an old, leather-bound book, the language too alien for an English ear. It might not be Polish but some ancient tongue serving this particular practice. The other priests echoed him. As they were chanting, the younger men gingerly held a bizarre-looking metal mask over Henry’s head. I couldn’t help a gasp when I noticed the two spikes protruding from the mask’s eyes. My blood ran cold at the foreboding thought of its function and I tightened my arms around her, putting more force to prevent her from turning her head should the urge hit her. I alone was enough; she needed not see how gruesome they took her fiancé. I held onto her small frame as if crushing her when Aron, the same Aron, who had praised her golden hair and told Henry how lucky he was to win such a lovely girl’s heart, swung the sledgehammer. Everything and everyone had turned to nothing, leaving only Aron, his instrument of execution and our poor, beloved Henry, as time dissolved into the movements of bulging muscles of Aron’s arms. Then… Henry was gone.

They tore her from my embrace with such strength that our bones literally snapped. Pain was lost on our terror-induced minds as the two of us were trying to hold onto each other. Don’t take her, take me instead! Let she leave this place! Let she live! I remembered begging them in both English and Polish. Deaf on their ears, my pleas. My sister wailed and kicked at them with a furious strength unknown to her petit form and it took two men to restrain her while the others wound the leather straps around her forehead, wrists and ankles, and bled her and brought death on her as they had done her fiancé. It was no simple slaughtering, I realized; it was an occult ritual designed for a purpose; whether it was a demon sacrifice – that, too, was not unheard in these lands – or an exorcism was unknown to me but I had a hunch that this practice must have something to do with the grotesque statue in the misty forest outside the village. Henry and my sister had been fascinated by it but when I looked at it, I had only felt a deep disturbance. Even when we had left, I could still feel its eyes on our backs and even hear the low sounds coming from the heart in its hand, beating and pumping red blood as if it was alive. That would be the only plausible explanation as to why the villagers had captured us, us who were perfect strangers to them, and gone to such extreme to dispose us.

In fact, those deductions about their occult were my later thoughts as I spent day and night roaming this accursed village, my body lost to dust and maggots yet my soul remained on this earth, unable to move on like my sister’s and Henry’s and countless other victims’ before and after us. At that moment, all in my head was the deafening scream of my sister when the mask came upon her. Even now I still had not figured out the cause of my lingering existence – if I could call it ‘existence’ at all – with my eyes blinded and limbs agonized by that nightmare my soul sometimes recalled. Oh, if only it had been a nightmare! But no, it was real as this bizarrity was real and it would take a greater measure than a pinch to the arm or a bucket of water to wake up from it. And what measure, I had not the slightest idea!

Hours, days, months or years had passed in confusion I couldn’t remember. Then, like a creature waking up from long hibernation I had risen out of the darkness of the cold basement, out of the confinement of my decaying corpse, laid anonymously in a crude wooden coffin. Though I couldn’t see, I was engulfed with the cacophony of life around me. It took time, really, to figure out how to block the sounds before they conspired to drive me mad yet I was not fully confident of my method – now and then they would become overwhelming again. I could feel everything around me too, the winds, the rains and the sun, hot on my ghostly skin like the flame in my ghostly heart. I had been in rage then and I had often wished I could take my vengeance on our murderers in the most violent and cruel manners as the vengeful spirits I had watched in horror movies did. Movies lied, obviously, because no matter how consuming my wrath was, I could do no such things as a poltergeist could. I could touch objects, true, feel their texture, their temperature but once I tried to lift them, my hands slipped through them like smoke. I could not even touch people. Whenever I attempted to, I would either slip through them or be instantly repelled by an unnamed force. It was much worse with the holy men, the old priests; my fingers felt like they were toasted and turned crispy before I even made direct contact with them. After many a failed experiment, I gave up eventually and as I did, the burning vengeance also died out. I was a void specter, stuffed with horror and pain each time new victims filled their prepared coffins down the basement, only to be emptied again and again. An endless cycle of torment. Despair.

…

One more time my feet had carried me down the damp, stony steps to where my nightmare had begun. I told myself the pain was not physical and if I tried I could block it the same way I could the sounds. Even if I couldn’t, it would only be temporary. My self-persuasion was not very convincing, not when the chill from the atmosphere was seeping into my skin. Not when my sister and Henry’s screams were swirling at the back of my head.

Charles didn’t scream, to my surprise; what I heard were strings of rapid-fire Polish that were too fast for me to follow. It astonished me that even at the moment his speech was free of stammer, that he sounded coherent and collected as a professor trying to reason with his difficult student instead of a victim of this unforeseen turn of event. Charles seemed to me the type that believes conversing can resolve most issues peacefully while Erik struck me as the complete opposite. Words I didn’t hear from him, silent as a mute; I heard him, or rather, I hearth _them_ trying to subdue him: hisses and growls flying, fists pounding into flesh, and flesh hitting walls. I heaved a sigh. Aron himself was a burly man and his twin assistants were a little less than giants, not to mention the robed priests around them. Erik’s chance was slim, and fading fast.

Erik’s struggle ceased after Charles’s sharp cry of his name. He was utterly silent that I was afraid they might have knocked him unconscious. The head priest began chanting in a low, ominous tone and all present echoed powerfully. The force of their combined voices reverberated through the walls of the basement, shaking me, hurting me. No, this wasn’t my soul recalling my mortal pains; this was real pain, as real as the burn I received from trying to touch the priests. I should never have gone down the stairs, I tried to tell myself every time and every time I ended up doing the opposite. I couldn’t help myself. As though there was an irresistible pull that lured me here – something to do with my remains stored in one of those boxes perhaps. The same force pushed the rewind button. It might not be Charles who was bound to the altar, it might be me. Listening to the chanting of ancient alien tongue that evoked the fast-swelling dread of damnation. There’s no one to help us, to listen to our pleas, to our prayers. We are beyond hope even before the blades cut into our flesh. All we can do is stare at the impending doom that hovered above our face, the full stop to our existence as a human being. Man or woman doesn’t matter afterwards, since what will be left of us is a mutilated corpse and maybe an imprisoned soul, if it could be call a soul at all.

It was quiet now; the chanting had stopped. An interlude to clear the body before they carried on with the other. Charles hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t even spoken. How unsettling was his bizarre silence towards the end. I hadn’t screamed either, my remaining rationality knowing such was futile. Though I kept my mouth shut, my own body had its own voice. It thrashed about in a desperate attempt to resist its fate. But Charles’s body had none of that voice, which was to me appalling. It was as though he had already died before the ritual began.

Even more, Erik’s silence in his companion, his lover’s murder was what chilled me to the core.

The distinctive sounds of the sledgehammer hitting metal and of bones cracked and smashed were beating against my eardrums, echoing in my mind and beyond, where it joined with the persistent haunting of my sister and Henry’s screams, and of all the unfortunate souls’ after, until everything died out and the whole universe fell into a deaf pit.

A sound then, a real one, not a phantom of my mind. It was soft at first, gradually growing louder. It was the voice of the metal bars behind which they kept Erik so that he would witness his friend’s end and envisaged his own. Someone shouted, probably Aron, and panic was palpable in a string of rapid-fire Polish that followed. The head priest gasped and began to yell words I only knew to be prayers. Chaos erupted and the whole basement went spiral into a symphony of madness. Voices I heard, a lot of them, among the sharp cries of metal. There were metal objects all around the place: the manacles, the bolts, the hooks, the masks. As if beckoned by some force, they all raised their voices at once.

Suddenly all noises was muffled, or seemed so because my hearing, refusing any other sounds, only allowed a peculiar one. All my time in this damned village I had only caught it once: when the curious and daring Americans discovered this basement and the village’s hideous secrets at its bowel. One of them, the most intrigued, opened a coffin lid and tried to lift the mask from a decomposing victim’s face and failed, not knowing the metal had been nailed to the skull. It was bone-chilling, that sound, unmistakable to my ears no matter how faint it was amidst a sea of noises. Now I was hearing it, listening to it as it became clearer and clearer: the bone was smashed to smithereens and the muscles and skin were ripped like fabric under someone’s attempt to pluck the freshly nailed mask from the face, made unyielding by the flesh trying to hold it in place. I wondered if it was Erik doing the job and the villagers, stunned by his action, had momentarily forgotten to stop him.

Don’t look, I whispered. Don’t look. The visage of your loved one ruined beyond recognition will be your everlasting curse. Perhaps, I reckoned now, the reason I was anchored to this land was because I had visualized my sister’s face under the mask, Henry’s and my own right before Aron carried out my execution.

Have you ever imagine how a person’s voice would be like once their face was smashed? You probably haven’t, you can’t, simply because no human could utter a syllable after having a heavy sledgehammer crushed their skull, let alone speak. But at the moment, there was no mistake I was hearing such a voice. It was clear enough, surprisingly, to crudely make out the meaning, despite the gurgling sound of fluid and clattering noise of smashed teeth and bone. If the peculiarity qualities of the voice were not enough to run chill down my spine, its tone surely did. It was horrifying to me not because it was sizzling with hatred – the tone I imagined coming from the evil-starred ones if they had been able to – but because it was dissonantly calm and serene as if the speaker was merely complimenting the savory treats in his afternoon tea.

“It was quite painful, you know,” he said. Impeccable, poised and very much British as before. My hearing must be deceiving me! It was Charles who had just spoken, Charles who should have been a corpse!

“And this robe is a total _eyesore._ ”

Aron was shouting “Devil!” and the head priest’s mantra thundered. Others began chanting after him. I heard a soft laughter, cutting through the cacophonous sea like a silver knife. The space reeled and my head was reeling with it. Dizzy. Nauseous. I felt sick like I really had a body of flesh and blood.

The objects were singing, the metal voice blending into the human ones until they reached a crescendo. And then, silence. Dark silence.

An acrid smell pervaded the air. Something burning?

I heard Erik for the first time throughout this ordeal. “You look disgusting,” he said.

I was at lost about who and what he was referring to.

But more importantly, why were Aron and the others quiet?

“I know. You don’t have to be so ruthless to your old man.”

A short period of silence. Then Charles’s voice again. “I feel better already.”

“You lose,” Erik flatly replied. I could pick out a faint amusement just underneath his tone. And why am I imagining Charles with a pout?

“If only you helped me though…”

Soft footsteps were gradually approaching my direction. My entire being took alarm. False alarm, I thought. Nonetheless I stepped back. Fear was rising in me. I knew it was nonsense, that I was invisible to any eyes, that not many things could do actual harm to me. The whole anomalous situation - made worse by my blindness and thus exaggerated by my imagination, desperately trying to fill in the gaps – induced in me an urgency to escape. While I still could.

“Now now, don’t run away from us,” a voice, Charles’s voice, spoke. “We don’t bite.”

I had already slipped half-way through the wall when a hand grabbed me. I was stunned. Shocked. A hand touched me, caught me and didn’t slip through me! I wasn’t repelled. I wasn’t burnt either. The skin felt cold though it shouldn’t, like metal dipped in snow. I shuddered. It wasn’t my soul’s recalling of living sensations; never had I come in contact with this sort of chill on human skin. Even the frozen cadavers at the university appeared warmer than this hand.

The grip was gentle yet firm though I supposed I could tear myself from him if I struggled. I didn’t. A subliminal yearning held me still. The need to be seen, to be heard, to be touched.

Even by the Devil.

Aron’s word echoed in my mind, growing weaker by second and was soon lost to oblivion. Pay no mind to the Devil. The Devil sees you, speaks to you and touches you, you who are a ghost forgotten in humans’ history.

Charles’s voice again. The same soothing timbre which had had me mesmerized. Only this time I wasn’t hearing him with only my ears; I was hearing him with my entire being. His voice enveloped me like the vast and thick body of water which blocked out the world while securing my mind in its safe embrace. I felt safe and protected as I had never truly felt after my death. I didn’t protest or even stirred when he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. Now it was clear to me that this man wasn’t human. Probably the Devil, like Aron had exclaimed.

He was lean, almost small, a build similar to my own. His body was as cold as his hand.

“You’re not wrong,” Charles whispered. “I am the Devil indeed. The Father of all devils.”

His reading my mind or his being the Devil, I couldn’t care less.

His hand was on the shriveled flesh of my once eyes. Cold, but not unpleasant. Just when I was convinced that I could be lulled to sleep, droplets of liquid fell to my eyelids. Hot. So extremely hot. Droplets of boiling oil. My dead sense flared, brought back to life in the most excruciating manner. I cried out. My whole body convulsed and was ready to slip away, passing through Charles’s embrace, through the ancient stone walls, through reality into endless loop of screams.

Charles held me close to his chest, whispering incoherently. English? Polish? I didn’t know. I couldn’t even answer my name if I was asked. Pain was consuming me, drowning me. Not the safe, comforting body of water in my trance. Not at all. Heavy, trapped, helpless, hopeless. I thought I was dying the second time but this time would be slower, more suffering than the last. I wept.

Suddenly Charles’s words made sense to me. Hold onto me, they said. It’s almost over. The words repeated in a soft melody that calmed my nerves. Like mother’s lullaby. Chased away the fears. Chased away the pain. The agony became dull and faded away until there was not a sliver of it. Lethargy beyond comprehension caused me to lay limp in his arms.

“There, it has gone away.”

I nodded, feeling his cold hand caressing my cheeks. I leaned into his touch.

“Never fear me, child. For we are one family.”

Somewhere I heard Erik’s quiet laughter. Was he amused? I couldn’t tell.

“Open your eyes,” he said, half-commanding, half-coaxing.

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” He chuckled. “I’ve just seen to that.”

I protested no more, trusting in his words, in their unearthly melody. Slowly, carefully, I opened my eyes, feeling the flesh tight, hesitant. Remembering the treatment they had gone through. I expected the pain but there was none. Similarly, the sudden light wasn’t so excruciating as I imagined. What was, instead, the scene of carnage that greeted me. Now I understood why Aron and the others remained _deadly_ silent in spite of the chaos.

The ground was littered with shriveled bodies, brown and dried up like barks. Unrecognizable, they could only be identified by their belongings – the cruxific and leather-bound book lying by a robed corpse, the heavy boots that belonged to the twin executioners, the sledgehammer discarded from vine-like hands. I looked around to the coffins, three of which housed the remains of Henry, my sister and myself, and returned to the mummified bodies. Was I delighted that our vengeance was done at last, that our murderers had suffered a fate worse than ours?

Not really.

Only one was alive: a young man clad in brown leather jacket and black turtleneck with a defiant expression on his chiseled features. In this living Hell he stood tall like a beautiful angel of death.

Then, for the first time, I laid my newly restored eyes on the one who had been speaking to me and holding me all along. None could enthrall me more than this face, not the carnage in front of me, not Erik’s dark beauty. I knew this face, had looked at it countless times before the loss of my sight. These blue eyes. This slightly freckled nose. These dark brown curls on his head that so contrasted his pale complexion. They were Charles’s as they were mine.

For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was looking at Charles or at a mirror. _Doppelgänger._

Not a mirror. The light in Charles’s eyes – shining like rare sapphire – and the mystic air that veiled his countenance when the corner of his lips curved I could never possess in a thousand years.

He was smiling to me as I stared at him, dumbfounded. “It’s very lovely when you look at me as if looking as an angel, you who has the same face as mine.” Erik joined him. His sharp features softened with amusement.

Why would the Devil choose my image as his guise? I couldn’t understand.

“Not a guise,” Charles corrected. His cold hand ghosted over the contours of my face, the chill remarkably distinct yet strangely pleasant. “You are my seed, the reflection of my image in mortal flesh. You and many of your brothers.”

I had no brothers, only a little sister. Somehow the thought of her wasn’t less aching as before.

“Tell me, child, what is your name?”

“…I… I…” I struggled with my voice, rasp from not speaking for too long. “… I…am… Charles. Charles Xavier…”

Charles’s smile was breath-taking. “I am known as Lucifer to the world at large.” He paused briefly. “But you, my child, can call me… Father.”

_End (Part 1)_


	2. Erik Lehnsherr

He was light, so light, a weight amounted to a wisp of smoke when Lucifer laid him in Erik’s arms. His beautiful eyes restored, the blood washed clean off his face, he looked so young, so innocent in his spell-induced sleep. He needed rest – all of them lost souls did – to make up for his long years as a lingering apparition. Lucifer’s blood rejuvenated him and enhanced him but a sufficient amount of rest was still in demand. And time was never scarce in Eden.

Erik wasn’t a stranger to this young man’s face – had been accustomed to seeing it every waking moment of his eternal afterlife; still, at this moment, he felt as if he had laid eyes on it for the very first time. So familiar was he with its features that he could paint it blindfolded yet also new, full of mysteries he was elated to unravel. He would save them for later – he, no, _they_ would have plenty of time; for now, he was satisfied with drinking in its beauty, damaged yet unblemished.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Lucifer smiled, a faint smile like a specter clinging at the contours of his perfect-shaped lips. None of his ‘sons’, though sharing his image down to the tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, had this peculiar smile that contained in its delicate curve of the lips eons of knowledge and understanding of human nature, whose glorious flaws and sins (his words) he fed on and reveled in.

“For decades, Erik,” he said, “I have silently wept in my belief that yours were a heart of metal.”

Erik did not so much raise an eyebrow at Lucifer’s penchant for dramatic exaggeration.

“But yours is only made of ice and one of my sons has managed to thaw it.” He clasped his hands, gloved in snow-white. “A match made in Eden.”

He smirked. “I suppose you play the role of Eros.”

“I’m flattered, Erik, but no, it is fate that pulls the two of you together, regardless of my presence.” He paused for a small chuckle. “I find it astonishing that of all Eden’s children, it is you, ‘stone-faced party-pooper’ – to quote Martin, to taste the sweetness of love at first sight.”

“I miss the short time you were banned from using your powers,” Erik replied, annoyance absent from his tone. Well, once you learn that you are the Devil’s spawn, or his millennia-old crush’s for that matter, you might as well learn to adapt to his general lack of respect to private thoughts and feelings. Don’t try to lecture him on the subject of common sense; he just won’t get it, he who had been born to a race of angels who preferred to open their minds rather than their mouths.

“Believe me, I do too.” He sighed softly. “Walking the earth as an actual mortal instead of just masquerading as one has been a rapturous experience. I’m in love with the pains and the feeling of utter helplessness as much as the joys we had.”

“Seems to me you rather enjoyed being tied up on the altar like a sacrificial lamb.” Erik nodded, stroking his chin. “Why ruined it? I did intend to carry your ‘dead’ body back to Eden as proof of your winning the bet.”

“That was very kind of you, Erik, to not think of disposing me in the middle of nowhere.”

Erik shrugged.

“I lost anyway,” Lucifer said, briefly looking at his immaculate Victorian outfit and visualizing the crimson blood – his mortal blood – only minutes ago. He shook his head ruefully. “The moment I saw what my child had gone through I knew I couldn’t possibly win this bet. Besides, much as I love it, being mortal isn’t my strong point.”

“You did well enough. I might just forget the little incident after the man swung the sledgehammer.”

Lucifer broke into a litany of delightful chuckles. “It seems I have bribed the referee handsomely enough for him to side with me.”

“I do love the look on Martin’s face in defeat.” Erik shrugged.

“We both have that in common,” Lucifer said. “But I do believe rules are made to be obeyed. And by the rules I have lost, regardless of the reason and circumstance.”

“Suit yourself. No matter who wins this bet, the rest of us will be guaranteed some fun.”

“I’m pleased to provide my dear children some entertainment.”

…

Martin Vosper, the youngest and most pampered amongst his brothers, was the major source of mischief in Eden. It was he who gathered them one day and announced that he had just made a bet with the All-Father.

“What is it?” Harry asked. He seemed interested and so did his beloved Winnie.

Martin cleared his throat, clearly in love with his brothers’ unadulterated attention on him. Even the aloof Charles twins looked intrigued. “In his next trip to Earth, Daddy will go as a mortal. Yes, you heard me. He will be absolutely mortal, no powers, no money out of thin air, no whatsoever. If he uses even a sliver of his powers, he’ll lose.”

“What’s the penalty?” Nicholas asked.

Martin cast a brief glance at Richard Wirth, who was the only one to not give a damn about this bet. Hell, he didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone here except Lucifer. Most of them wouldn’t want to come near him either, finding him too creepy. A bit wrong in the head, Nicholas tried for euphemism. To be fair, a number of them wouldn’t be considered _right_ in the head but Richard effortlessly topped them all. Hence when Martin tilted his head slightly to Richard’s direction, that was enough an answer.

Whatever the penalty, they would sure have some fun, they tacitly reached a conclusion.

“The question is,” Martin said, crossing his arms, “which of us could watch Daddy being tortured and possibly torn to pieces without batting an eye?”

Some regarded him with strange look that said “Where the hell did you get that idea?!”

“It happens every day on earth, you know, just watch _Hostel_ or _Saw_ or _Grotesque_ ,” he explained defensively. When some raised an eyebrow at him, Martin was quick to hold out a handful of torture movie DVD boxes for demonstration, earning a few winces. “What, never watched a torture movie before? Anyway, we should decide which of us will be his companion and our referee. I suggest we have a vote.”

The Charles twins were the first to be cast out. True to their unofficial nickname given by the others, “Daddy’s Pets” (the official one being “Lucifer’s Hounds" by the way), they would not spare a second to tear apart anyone or anything that gave off the faintest malice toward their beloved Father and Master. Heck, Lucifer had armed them more than just fangs and claws to do so.

Quintus and Stelios were the second to be cast out. Their warrior instinct would urge them to brandish their weapons the moment they sensed malice. Big dammed heroes. The longevity of their time in Eden had neither dulled their spirit nor skills; they still kept to their old ways of mortal men in their era: eat, fight, fuck – now that eating was not a necessity, there was plenty of time for the other two, the portion of which depended on their mood. It helped that Leto joined them often with his centuries of fighting techniques and battle strategies.

Yes, that left Leto out of the picture too.

The peacekeeper Carl Jung was another to be cast out. Much as he was willing to help, his aid involved sitting down in a nice, clean office with a cup of steaming hot tea served in bone china cup and saucer, and having a nice, civil talk with Bach or Mozart in the background. None would ask the gentleman to engage in the brutal and barbarian act of fighting. Similarly, none could count on him to behave as they expected of him: to sit tight and observe while the Father was tortured by mortal hands.

Like Carl Jung, there were others who were so abhorred by violence that they would neither carry out the act themselves nor witness it being done in front of their eyes.

Just leave Harry and his beloved Winnie in peace, OK?

On the contrary, there were those so keen on violence and mayhem that even a mere suggestion could arouse their blood lust and send them into a killing frenzy. To wreak havoc on earth? There was no better choice. To accompany Lucifer and act as a referee? No way! Better keep them in Eden, where their source of entertainment never ran dry. What source you ask, well, don’t bother.

And there were those unfortunate souls so broken by their mortal lives that it was a crime against all crimes to take them back to the world that had so tremendously traumatized them. Let them stay in the tranquilizing embrace of Eden as long as they needed to recover and be ready to venture out again, which could very well be forever but that didn’t pose a matter.    

After careful analysis, they were left with not so many options. Erik stood out as an exceptionally good one. In terms of calmness and patience, this was the man who had spent fifteen years of his life tracking down and planning revenge on his family’s murderer. In terms of fierceness, this was the man who had charged into his enemy’s lair alone to exact some sort of a kamikaze attempt, which, in Martin’s words, was “plain nuts”. Had it worked? Of course it’d worked: his vengeance delivered, his enemy packed and sent straight to Hell, and Erik was here.

Now just how all those qualified for Lucifer’s companion and referee none raised a question; instead they all raised their thumbs. As for Erik, he only went along because he was awfully bored and in dire need of a change of air. Life in Eden was decent and his cohabitants tolerable, Erik concluded, but any man would definitely want a break from the constant sight of men who bore his face openly displaying their affection to men who bore the _alter kocker_ ’s face, not just because he himself was indescribably lonely and envious of his brothers’ love. All Eden and not a single soulmate…

Besides, who would say no to a chance to walk the human world again, even for a short while? Certainly not Erik.

…

So far, so boring.

Being mortal had its charms: they could walk into any place, day or night, without rousing a single person’s attention. Just two normal young men, perhaps a little good-looking, enjoying themselves like any other young men on earth. Before, it was either sneaking in invisibly or drawing everyone’s eyes to them, especially when Lucifer was “in the mood” to “grace the mortals” with his presence. If his vampire-like pulchritude didn’t startle them (which was rare, really), there was always his Victorian garment, complete with snow-white gloves, a hat and a silver walking stick. To Lucifer, Victorian outfits were most elegant; to Erik, they were just plain ridiculous – nice on Halloween but other nights, _nein_! In this mortal guise, Lucifer had to kiss his beloved clothes goodbye. No Victorian garb, Martin insisted and sought to dress Lucifer in the most elderly clothes he could imagine: baggy pants, a plain shirt and the most dull-colored sweater Erik had ever seen. He even managed to put a pair of rounded eyeglasses on Lucifer while the others stood close by, laughing quietly amongst themselves. Lucifer’s vanity was legendary in the seven rings of Hell and having to dress like a seventy-year-old was a serious blow to his ego.

…which was why the first mortal place he rushed into was a shopping mall. There he spent a few good hours seeking a “moderate” outfit while Erik consumed pack after pack of the sweet-killing nicotine in the smoking area and trying to fend off the receptionist’s blatant flirts. Erik was particularly glad that he had never married: this kind of waiting could send him to an early grave faster than the cigarette if he were a mortal man still.

They spent the next few days in Downtown Grand Las Vegas indulging in the mortal decadence like a number of mortals here. As the saying goes, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and so had a considerable portion of their traveling money. Though he could draw gold out of thin air, Lucifer decided to abide the rules – he too wanted to win this bet – and once they made it to New York, Erik found himself beside a _minstrel_ Lucifer, holding out the hat as the All-Father sang and played the violin for passers-by in random subway stations. The violin had been purchased from a regular shop with the remaining of their money and in the Devil’s hands, it could sing with a similar voice to the famed Stradivarius’s. Erik wasn’t surprised that they had managed to earn enough money for two economy tickets to central Europe, which had translated into hours on a crammed airplane and a Lucifer sleeping on his shoulder the entire length, using him as a sort of human pillow. Had Erik enjoyed the flight? Very much.

Lucifer always had fondness for the remote land in central Europe, where the wave of urbanization was feeble and the people still largely believed in the existence of the Devil, namely himself. Venturing into such areas led them sorely away from the comfort of modern life Erik had so gotten used to in Eden – they had everything there, including the most advanced gadgets. Though some of them found it more comfortable sticking to the old ways, Erik himself had no trouble adapting to technology, having lived twenty-six years of his mortal life in the industrial age. Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t appreciate the primitive landscape like Lucifer had been trying to convince him.

“Why, Erik, open your heart,” Lucifer said, swinging his arms around Erik’s lithe form. “Embrace the infinite beauty of nature, for the Father fashioned Earth in the image of Eden.”

Then kindly let me pass, Erik thought. Wasn’t he seeing Eden every day? None could deny Lucifer had created a perfect replica of God’s Garden; even Azazeal had been impressed by his craft.

Still, the beauty of Mother Nature wasn’t very appealing as they had been lost for hours in a misty forest. Somewhere in Poland, he guessed. The coach had dropped them in the nearest town and they should have stayed the night there – it was only a few hours till dark. But Lucifer, hearing about a backwater village beyond the forest, had insisted that they should try to reach it by sunset. Now they were wandering in the thick mist, unable to find their way out. Erik had tried to use his power for direction and it had been of little avail. Something was clearly messing with the magnetic field, the source of which might be preternatural. Great. Whatever it was, Erik hoped it would show itself soon and they could be done with it before sunset. He didn’t mind spending a night under the sky but Lucifer was another matter. Signs of exhaustion were already on his face since Lucifer hadn’t touched a speck of his vast powers, which Erik was certain if he had, Erik wouldn’t have been able to tell.

Erik merely grunted at the sight presented in front of them. The fool finally had the gall to cut the chase and make himself known in the form of an extremely grotesque statue. Remember the time Martin had sneaked in Esmé’s studio to mess with his unfinished sculpture? The mild-mannered Esmé had merely smiled at Martin’s childish prank but this statue could undoubtedly send him to a roaring rampage with its sheer ugliness. Erik didn’t know the name of this dumbass yet judging by his presence, he must have been nestling in this forest for some time, haunting any ill-fated mortals that crossed his territory. The lowliest kind of vermin Lucifer never acknowledged as his brethren.

Now there were two options: Erik could either fling him to the moon or let him see for himself who he was messing with. He opted for the easier, dropping the veil that concealed his unearthly aura. The result was marvelous: the fool scurried away as fast as he could, with his tail and the funny mist between his lanky legs. Good riddance. Should have done it in the beginning to save the trouble, Erik thought. Lucifer might have locked himself in a mortal vessel as part of the bet but he had no reason to not show off his own powers. He had been powerful as a mortal; as an immortal, his powers were on par with the Charles twins and it took an ancient fallen angel like Azazeal to completely beat him. In the brief moment they had made eye contact, Erik hadn’t hesitated to tell the fool that he could crush him to ash and dump the ash to oblivion. Well, at least he still had enough sense to not try the authenticity of the threat; slaying vermin was one hell of a dirty business. Besides, that was the twins’ job – no fair in stealing your brothers’ fun. Lucifer preached about that all the time.     

Now that the mist had dissipated, the magnetic field should lead them out of the forest in no time. Erik wasn’t helping Lucifer really; he was just fed up with wandering aimlessly, which, in Lucifer’s flowery words, was “appreciating the timeless magnificence of the ancient trees and rocks”. Bullshit.

…

There was something off about this village. The people seemingly dropped whatever they had been doing just to stare at them when the pair emerged from the misty forest. An awkward silence passed between the villagers and the strangers in which Erik could catch from them suspicion, fear and… menace. Suspicion he could comprehend; this was a rural area where few travelers set foot on, hence it was not unusual for them to have some doubts about the new comers. But fear, Erik couldn’t comprehend fear. Lucifer had made sure that his appearance had none of his original features – no snow-white skin or glittering eyes. There was nothing inhuman or threatening in their look, just two normal young men on a backpacking trip, young men whom they could see anywhere on earth, and could easily outnumber should any unsightly event turn up. And menace was not something Erik expected to find in this backwater village. Menace was faint – well concealed, perhaps – but palpable in their quickened pulses, the sweats gathering on their backs, in their palms or the rush of adrenaline in their bloodstreams. It nearly overwhelmed him when he unlocked his preternatural sense. Why was that, he wondered. He didn’t remember doing anything that might have offended them; for Hell’s sake they had barely stepped on their land.

The persistent stench of putrefaction coming from the earth was no positive sight.

Lucifer was conversing with the tall man who appeared to be in charge here, his sweet smile on full display. Leave the talking and charming to Lucifer’s silver tongue. Erik stood silently beside him, examining the village. It was a small, closed community of a few dozen houses huddled together, with their own crops to cultivate. There was a church at its center, where priests in lavish robes were coming out for the villagers to pay homage to. Erik frowned; everything about that church rubbed Erik the wrong way, from the way the priest were treated as if they were royalties, the strange religious symbol on the rooftop to the odor of death coming the strongest from the soil underneath it. When he was studying the structure of the church, something caught his eyes. He blinked twice to make sure it wasn’t a trick of light. It wasn’t. There was a ghost behind the oak tree, a young man with chestnut hair roughly about his mortal age. Note that seeing ghosts was not something new to Erik, who was one himself, the only difference being he was given preternatural flesh by Lucifer. But seeing a ghost that happened to be a son of Lucifer in such a state really had him flabbergasted.

Erik heard none of Lucifer’s words to the villagers; his attention was entirely drawn to the silent, suffering ghost. He gave off sorrow, confusion a profound agony. He had been tormented, physically and mentally, Erik could see, and even now the pains hadn’t left him alone. Just looking at him was enough to provoke the long-slumbering rage inside Erik. Who could have committed such bestial crime of ruining his eyes, two blessed gems like all Lucifer’s sons possessed?

After some negotiations, the villagers agreed to let them stay, albeit reluctantly. Aron, a muscular man in mid-forties with ashen blond hair, offered to take them under his roof. He appeared an amiable and hospitable host, a façade which might fool a normal human who couldn’t hear the rushing of blood in his veins of the tensing of his muscles. Besides, this man reeked of killing. Erik had been a killer, a sufficient killer, and he knew when he encountered one.

“I sense fear and malice in this village,” he said, his gaze lingering at the door where Aron had stood minutes ago. “From that man, from his folks, even from the children.”

Aron had led the pair to their room, opposite from each other, and invited them to dinner in one hour’s time before leaving them to their own devices.

Lucifer sprawled gracefully on Erik’s bed. Clutching a pillow as white and soft as cloud, he let out a pleasured moan.

“Their malice towards us perfect strangers is unusual.” Erik picked up where they had left soon as he sat down the bed. “They’re probably hiding something. Harry can read minds but I can’t.”

“The only mind Harry reads is his Winnie’s,” Lucifer corrected.

“The Charles twins, then. There’s one thing: I can smell decayed flesh all around, especially in the church’s vicinity.”

“Not your average backwater village, eh?”

“I wager it has something to do with the imbecile we saw in the forest.”

Lucifer stretched out like a huge cat on the mattress. “Let those vermin roam as they like, I honestly cannot care less. The villagers intrigue me and I really want to see what they have up their sleeve. If we’re lucky enough, we may get a scenario like one of Martin’s favorite movies.”

Erik rested his back against the headboard and looked at Lucifer with a glint in his grey-blue eyes. “You do remember that whatever happens, I will only stand by and watch?”

For a moment Lucifer looked hurt, betrayed. Erik snickered.

“Yes,” he sighed lengthily, “I believe the exact words are you will watch me being tortured and possibly torn to pieces without batting an eye. It brings me to tears to see my children all plotting against me.”

“So you were _forced_ to accept this bet?”

“Right. My fault.” Lucifer held up his arms in defeat.

“One more thing,” said Erik in serious tone, “there’s one of your sons here. His spirit, to be exact.”

Lucifer’s half-lidded eyes shot open.

“Any hints of his death?”

The image of the sad young man staring at their direction with bleeding sockets flashed his mind. Erik didn’t realize he had sighed.

“His eyes were destroyed and there is blood all over him…”

“My poor child,” said Lucifer. “We’ll take him home right when we leave.”

…which meant cutting short their journey. Erik couldn’t possibly complain.

…

Erik saw the ghost on the staircase, leaning his head against the railing and _looking_ at them with his sockets.

Talks were lively around the table – trust in Lucifer to keep the conversation flowing and their gracious hosts entertained. Erik paid little mind to them, only now and then giving curt answers to questions regarding himself. His attention was latched on the ghost, who looked both scared and drawn to the tantalizing liveliness of the table. His passiveness was proof that he wasn’t recently deceased. A new ghost would be very confused by their state of death and would try to influence the livings, only to realize that they no longer could and thus, fell into a pit of rage and despair before they finally came to accept their fate. This ghost was aware that he wasn’t alive and he was content to ‘watch’ instead of going around the table, trying in vain to touch the objects and people. Say, if Lucifer and Erik hadn’t come across this village, this young man could be trapped here for eternity. Transcendence would come with a normal ghost’s acceptance of their death and severance of all mortal cords; such was unlikely to a Devil’s son who was denied Heaven from the moment of his birth. And pains, let’s not forget the pains inflicted by their death. Who was Erik to not know them?

Erik wanted to reach out to the specter, embracing him and whispering to him that soon his suffering would end. He restrained himself; his still had his mortal guise to maintain.

…

He wasn’t surprised, only amused to see the ghost slipping through the door of his room. How typical it was for inexperienced ghosts to assume that mortal eyes couldn’t see them and mortal ears couldn’t hear them.

Well, to be fair, there was no mortals here, only two convincing imitators.

Kicking off his shoes, Lucifer fell to soft mattress of Erik’s bed. He had ignored that he too was provided with a comfortable room and conveniently shared Erik’s. Erik, on the other hand, was kind of used to having Lucifer’s form pressed against him in the night so it wouldn’t be too much an inconvenience.

“Erik,” he called, using his seductive tone which he knew Erik was immune to. “A foot rub, maybe?” 

Erik snorted derisively. “Not your pet.”

“So cold!” Lucifer groaned, rolling along the length of the bed as if trying to rub his body against the bed sheet. “But some comfort for my sore feet is not asking too much, no? You know I’m not accustomed to this hardship of traveling.”

Stuffing a pillow beneath his head, he raised a leg suggestively, which Erik caught and began messaging from calf to ankle.

“Serve you right for accepting this stupid bet.”

“I know, you’ve said that a hundred times already! But Erik, you can’t chide me for a little fun!” Charles rebuked and pouted. His other leg nudged teasingly at Erik’s thigh.

Typical signal for sex. Erik just snorted.

“Why, Erik, loosen yourself,” Lucifer told him all the time. “Keeping your passion pent-up is never healthy for body and soul.”

And he took upon himself the responsibility of Erik’s well-being since the man had yet to show any interest in other Eden inhabitants. The All-Father was a generous provider of carnal pleasure; in fact, it wasn’t far from Azazeal’s quip about Eden being his harem.

No one seemed to mind, though, including Erik.

He glanced at the ghost in the corner and considered turning down Lucifer’s offer.

“Anyway, it’s been forever since we got to be alone, just the two of us…”

Erik shook his head and pointed to the empty corner of the room. Lucifer ignored the hint.

“It’s like our… honeymoon.”

“And what now?” Erik asked sarcastically. “Honeymoon sex?”

Again he looked at the ghost, whose head hung low in a very human gesture to hide the pink on his cheeks. For all his knowledge of spirits, he knew that human ghosts experienced mostly the same as the living. Their faces colored when they came across something embarrassing. They withdrew their hands if they touched something hot and the pains they received upon their death continued to agonize them. It was instinctive for their souls to remember every living sensation and try to recreate them so that they wouldn’t feel out-of-life. Paradoxically, it confused them and thus hindered their moving on.

“Exactly my thought after the foot rub,” Lucifer cooed. He sat up, putting his arms around Erik’s shoulders. He turned Erik’s face and started nibbling his sharp jaw.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the ghost slip through the door.

Lucifer had moved to his clavicle.

“I have a feeling you’re doing it on purpose.”

“It?” Lucifer asked. He stopped his playful teases and lifted his head to meat Erik’s gaze.

“He was in here.”

“How could I? I can’t see him, remember?”

Erik scoffed, unconvinced.

“This might be the last time I’ve got to ‘tend’ to your needs, you know,” Lucifer whispered in a low voice. Before Erik had the time to register his meaning, Lucifer burst into a fit of, in Erik’s standard, girlish giggles.

“Anyway, it’s been some time since we last had…”

“How exactly is sixteen hours ‘some time’?”

“Blowing you off in a crammed WC stall doesn’t count, really.”

“Such vulgarity,” Erik said between laughter. “How the hell have you never spoken like that in front of the others?”

“I’m mortal now,” Lucifer rebuked. “That’s a mortal weakness. What I mean is you’re strongly advised to take this one-in-a-million chance to dominate me.”

“You’re that desperate to be dominated?”

He shrugged. “This mortal flesh has influenced me somehow. It’s not necessarily bad.”

Erik rolled over and settled on top of Lucifer. “Like this?”

Softly the Devil laughed and kissed Erik. “Yes, please.”

…

Erik had known they were coming before they stood in front of their door. The thundering of heartbeats. The heady scent of adrenaline-induced sweats. The whispers they passed between each other, “it’s time” and “he’s not in here”, “must be the other room”. Beside him, Lucifer stirred. Let’s see what they have up their sleeve, Lucifer’s earlier words echoed in his mind. He waited patiently.

The door was forced open and men crowded their room. Erik recognized his gracious host Aron, whose wife had served them steaming Polish dishes, and the towering twins who had stared coldly at them when they arrived at the village. Malice had come the strongest from them. It was the same now.

Silent as statues, the men tore them from their bed, turning a deaf ear to Lucifer’s queries. Down the stairs they dragged them, out of Aron’s house and into the church. The walls and steps were medieval and the odor of rotten flesh grew stronger with their descent, to the point it overwhelmed Erik’s senses for a good minute, allowing him to see nothing but the crude wooden boxes and smell nothing but the revolting stench coming from them once they reached the bottom. And then metal. Metal surrounding them. Manacles. Chains. Bolts. Knives. Hooks. What was the metal inside each box? And blood, dried and painted upon, layer after layer.

Erik saw the ghost again, crouching next to one of the many unadorned boxes. The dim candlelight was seeping through his nearly transparent skin and his sockets were bleeding crimson, his face ghastly pale. His lips were quivering while his form was flickering like a bad-signal image. He hadn’t looked half- ghostly like he was doing right now.

The sounds went deaf on Erik; in his ears was only the unsteady rhythm of a phantom heart beating against a phantom ribcage. Never had Erik so wished he possessed telepathy so that at the moment he was able to touch the ghost’s mind and witness what horror was reigning.

Besides him, Lucifer was trying to reason with their captors in no avail. He was playing so well that Erik could even hear the fear and panic in his tone. But Erik had no mind to play with him now. With a jerk of his shoulders he broke away from the steely grip on him, probably leaking a tiny speck of his preternatural powers, and reached out to the ghost. The priests in dark, ornate robes roared and the twins went after him, only to be pushed back with his fist. He saw them all as Shaw and would probably have killed them but for Lucifer’s voice sharply calling out to him, “Erik!”

Ah, the mortal guise. Erik was tempted to say “fuck that” but his emerging rationality raised his voice against it. Allowing the men to restrain him, Erik took another glance at the ghost, who had seemingly come out of his nightmare and was staring at their direction with his eyeless sockets. All right. They would take him home, end his suffering after it was over. Erik had a hunch it would be over very soon.

Erik didn’t protest when they ripped their clothes to shreds and clothed them in stark white ceremonial gowns. He suppressed a small laughter, knowing Lucifer must be cursing under his breath for the hideous fashion crime they committed. He wished he had had his phone so he could snap a picture of Lucifer.

The head priest beckoned the men to put Erik behind their makeshift cell while Lucifer was tied to a crucifix-shaped stone altar. Chanting voices echoed and ancient words flowed out from wrinkled lips. Erik frowned; he was certain Lucifer had caught it too. It was a ritual all right, one served to “banish the Devil of the mist” which devoured the feeble hearts of mortals and replaced them with his own sinister black one. So the grotesque, cowardly vermin that had dared show up in front of them was the problem here. It took all Erik’s will to suppress the fit of laughter at the irony: they had the Prince of Darkness himself tied up on their altar and yet they spoke about a trivial demon that wasn’t worth mentioning in the Seven Hells. However, he wasn’t above chuckling at Lucifer, who was having his wrists and Achilles’ tendons lacerated as part of the exorcism, when his gaze fell on Erik. The All-Father mouthed at him to “kindly shut up” so that he could concentrate on fulfilling his role as a hapless sacrificial lamb.

The ghost had retreated to a corner, his arms clutching his lean frame. A metal mask was brought out with two spikes protruding from its sockets. So that explained the metal in each coffin, “blind thy sight shouldst thou seek to lay eyes on evil.” Once again the urge to tear down the iron bars hit Erik, Lucifer’s little game be damned.

His eyes blurred, went dark in milliseconds and vision came into focus. Not from Lucifer, Erik was certain. Suddenly it wasn’t Lucifer he saw on the altar but a young man with chestnut hair and sky-colored eyes wide open in terror. One of his sons – the ghost. He had fought till the final moment, thrashing his body about with such strength Erik had to admire. The shadow loomed over his face, gradually coming closer and closer. A noise. An acute pain that caused Erik to wince. The vision vanished.

Erik looked around. None of the men appeared to have the vision. So, a telepath then, not a powerful one, perhaps not even aware of his own ability; such cases weren’t rare. But why Erik of all people? A mere coincidence?

With a mask nailed to his face and his gown soaked in blood, Lucifer was laying lifelessly on the altar. The ritual was complete, the demon-possessed exorcised and the unfortunate soul released, the head priest announced. God bless his soul. The executioners turned to Erik.

Playtime was over. Such good metal to waste, thought Erik as the iron bars broke in half and fell to the floor, allowing him to walk out of his cell. Other metal objects responded vigorously to his beckon. How he missed his power – there were few opportunities to use it Eden. Aron shouted and other men joined him; their hearts were thumping frantically and their hulking bodies were soaked in sweats. The head priest gasped and began chanting while holding to the symbol wearing on his neck with both hands. It tore itself free of his palms to join its siblings, floating in the air.

What to do now, Erik wondered. Give them the fright of their life and retrieve Lucifer, who was determined to play dead till the end? Erik was excelled in killing, not terrifying people (Martin and a few others would say otherwise). Should he demolish this accursed place? He looked to the ghost, standing with his mouth slightly agape and obviously confused about what was happening around him. How could he approach him and win his trust without scaring the poor man away? Erik honestly had no experience in this field. He almost regretted never asking the Charles twins how they explained the situation to the new ghosts and convinced them. Judging by their personality, they might just put the spirits under a sleeping spell and ship them to Lucifer. Perhaps he should do the same, except he had neither the knowledge nor the skills required. Perfect.     

Lucifer solved the problem for him by simply sitting up and ripping the mask off his face, which was a little better than a pulp of minced flesh and excessive blood. A sight that rendered the calloused humans speechless, trembling in fear. For once Erik was actually glad that the ghost was blind.

“It was quite painful, you know. And this robe is a total  _eyesore,_ ” Lucifer said. Screwed his mortal disguise, basically, but not his prissy British accent and his default civil manner. Always the gentleman Devil, as he claimed. There was a chilling edge in his tone. Last time Erik had heard Lucifer speaking in such tone, all mortals around him had been decimated.

The basement descended into chaos. The head priest held out a large crucifix and began chanting. Others echoed him and formed a circle around their target, holding out their crucifixes and sprinkling holy water at him. Power radiated so intensely from the circle that Erik felt every fiber of his body vibrating with scorching pain. The highest form of purification. Were this a normal demon, he would be eradicated at once. Unfortunately, it was the Father of all devils they were dealing with, who gave them a soft laughter before he condemned them to death. Sapphire-blue flame rose around his body, incinerated his mortal flesh to reveal his true form: a creature beyond all nightmares. His third eye stared at them as the flame consumed them faster than they could scream. Their holy symbols burnt and turned to dust in their hands, their chanting halted and their bodies collapsed on the ground, shriveled and brown like mummies. Gruesome as it looked, there was nothing personal in the way he dispatched them. Lucifer was a voracious eater nourished by the sweet delicacy of human souls – the more sinned the better. And sustaining fatal injuries in his mortal flesh had starved him to the point of forgoing the bet, the result of which was this hellish scene.

Well, who said gluttony wasn’t a Devil’s trait?

“You look disgusting,” Erik remarked, looking up and down Lucifer’s demonic form with a small frown. No matter how many times he looked at this form, he could never find it charming. The only ones who did were, unsurprisingly, the Charles twins and probably Richard Wirth. Good thing the ghost was spared this sight.

“I know. You don’t have to be so ruthless to your old man.” Lucifer licked his lips, satiated. Blue flame danced on his skin until the demon was gone and Lucifer appeared human again, immaculate and posh in his black Victorian frock coat, silk cravat adorned with a sapphire teardrop and snow-white gloves. Well, at least he had the sense to dismiss his hat and walking stick.

“You lose,” Erik replied while absent-mindedly checking the cuffs of his leather jacket, restored to him together with his form-fitting black turtleneck and grey jeans.

“If only you helped me though…”

Erik’s eyebrow arched comically as if to remind Lucifer why he had been chosen as his companion in the first place.

He tilted his head to the ghost – surely Lucifer could see him now. It was most appropriate for the Father to approach his son.

The ghost tried to slip through the walls, confused and scared, but Lucifer caught him in his embrace. Sweet words poured – the Devil’s whisper that could tempt even the most virtuous soul into the whirlwind of sins, waves of serenity enveloping the ghost’s tumultuous mind and finally the blood, the precious blood that congealed in itself eons of ancient magic and powers, the blood that contained all the evils in the world and at the same time could heal any damages. Slicing his palm, Lucifer let his blood filled the ghost’s empty sockets. He writhed in Lucifer’s embrace, painful moans escalating to deafening screams. Though Lucifer tried to comfort him, he had to go through this ordeal on his own. To wash away pain required greater pain. Erik himself had tasted it when Lucifer put him back together, piece by piece.

The pain wouldn’t last forever. After a while, the ghost laid limp in Lucifer’s arms, breathing heavily. There were sweats on his flushed skin and he was no longer a ghost but an entirely different existence, one that could endure eternity.

“Never fear me, child. For we are one family.”

Erik laughed softly. Lucifer’s cliché welcome to every new member. “Can’t find something new, old man?” he said.

Lucifer ignored his telepathically tease and commanded the ghost to open his newly restored eyes. Gingerly he did, revealing to Erik the most exquisite blue eyes he had ever known. With them, he looked at Lucifer as though he was a hatchling looking at its mother for the first time. The thought brought a tingling warmth to Erik’s heart.

His name was Charles, Charles Xavier, the same as the mortal name Lucifer chose for himself. A fascinating coincidence.

The whole journey was a marvelous coincidence, it had turned out. Erik was truly grateful that he was the one to accompany Lucifer.    

“We’ll get to know each other soon, Charles,” he whispered to the slumbering youth in his arms, and gently kissed the rich chestnut curls.

…

At dawn they left the village, still in deep sleep and unaware of the incident at the church. The sky was a violet-pink with little cloud, making the huge column of mist more prominent. Gazing at the sky, Lucifer said, “Heaven knows how long that vermin has been tormenting those pitiable mortals.”

“You ate a handful of those ‘pitiable mortals’ yourself,” Erik kindly reminded him.

“I can’t undo it, can I? God bless his pious servants.”

Erik snorted.

Stroking his smooth chin, Lucifer smiled. “Yet I can get rid of that vermin, as a token of my sincere apology.”

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I’ve failed to make everything clear, here’s a brief explanation: This village is cursed with having a demon lurking in the forest (in the form of a statue). Those who look at the statue get possessed and the villagers must kill them before they transform into demons (and kill everyone else).
> 
> James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender’s fictional characters – in order of appearance or reference (except Erik, Charles and my OC – Lucifer):  
> • JM: Martin – Martin Vosper (Murder in Mind)  
> • MF: Harry Colebourn (A Bear Named Winnie)  
> • MF: Charles twins – Charles Allen and unnamed twin brother (Sherlock Holmes: The Case of the Silk Stocking)  
> • JM: Nicholas – Nicholas Garrigan (The Last King of Scotland)  
> • MF: Richard – Richard Wirth (Blood Creek)  
> • MF: Stelios (300)  
> • MF: Quintus – Quintus Dias (Centurion)  
> • JM: Leto – Leto Atreides II (Children of Dune)  
> • MF: Carl Jung (Dangerous Method)  
> • MF: Azazeal (Hex)
> 
> Check out these links for more information on their roles:
> 
> http://joel7th.wordpress.com/2014/07/19/fassinating-alphabet/  
> http://joel7th.wordpress.com/2014/09/13/mcnificent-alphabet/

**Author's Note:**

> This is largely based on the horror movie The Shrine (2010) . However, you don’t have to watch the movie to understand this story. The second part, told in Erik’s POV, will clarify and fill in the missing parts.


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